


Jack-o-Lantern

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bitty's Junior Year, Bunny Costume, Closeted Character, Demisexuality, Fall 2015, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Healthy Relationships, Hockey, Introspection, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, National Hockey League, Navel-Gazing, Past Drug Addiction, Providence Falconers, Secret Relationship, Skype, Year Three, after-kegster, bitty's bunny costume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: Jack Zimmermann was not the most self-perceptive human on the planet. But when it came to his feelings for Bittle, he desperately wanted to understand exactly how, when, and why he had gone from "resent" to "like" to "love." In fact, he'd very nearly ruined his life--a second time--because he'd failed to piece together how important Bittle was to him. And he needed to know how that had happened, so he could recognize other momentous decisions when they came flying at him. Or: In his rookie season, Jack tries to make space in his life for the NHL, Bittle, and romance all at the same time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to my very first Check, Please! fanfic. I've been writing long enough to know that I have a pattern when I'm entering a new fandom, and that is that I start by getting into a character's headspace. So welcome to my brain on Jack!
> 
> This story takes place during the events shown or alluded to in the comics, extras, and tweets from October 2015 through November 1st, 2015, but it also refers to events in the past that encompass Jack's time in Juniors up through the "present" of the story. I've tried to line up to canon as much as possible, but I have probably made a few mistakes (and they will probably bother me when they're pointed out!). I also lived in Massachusetts for a long time, and this fic incorporates some of my fave things about Providence. (I feel there's not enough PVD love in the fandom at present.) 
> 
> I'm working on my Quebecois French, and I'm sure I've made mistakes there, too. You should be able to hover the mouse over for the translations.
> 
> Enjoy!

"So, let me get this straight: You're on a pumpkin?"

"Pretty much the whole team are." Jack nodded. Bittle's image bounced a little as he hitched himself higher on his bed, and his laptop shifted with him. "It's very intricate. I mean, seriously, it's a portrait, but carved into the pumpkin. They make four copies of each design, so that they can switch them out every week. It's about 20,000 pumpkins altogether. And the team recorded a little video message for the beginning of the tour." Jack wiped at his fringe. "Ah, Bits, I wish you could come down so we could go."

"It's at the zoo?" 

"Yeah. But at night. So the pumpkins are all lit up. And I guess, the animals are asleep, but people walk through and look at these hundreds and hundreds of jack-o-lanterns. Heh. 'Jack'-o-lantern. Get it?" He couldn't contain his grin.

"Lord, help me, yes, I get it. You are too cute. Anyway, that sounds charming, honey." Bittle leaned forward, chin on one hand. "I wish I could get there for it, too."

Jack's smile faded momentarily. "Well...maybe…. They do run it for four weeks."

"I know, sweetheart, but--our season's starting, too. And your schedule--"

"And your classes. I know." He fell silent for a few seconds and his eyes flicked down toward his keyboard. "Bits, I-- How _are_ your classes going?" he asked abruptly.

It was Bitty's turn to blush. "Oh, ha! Well, you know...I can't believe it's almost midterms already. Oh, but Professor Atley said that she's offering a class next term that sounds 'swawesome…."

They talked for a few more minutes. When Jack saw the spark return to Bitty's eyes, he felt safe in bringing the call round to an end. "Okay, bedtime," he reminded his boyfriend. "I'll call you tomorrow after practice."

"Okay. Oh, before I forget: Shitty texted Lardo the other day about coming out for our home opener."

"Yeah, he mentioned it to me, too," Jack said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"Well, I just thought...it'd mean a lot to...to the boys, if--"

"Oh, to the _boys_ , of course," Jack chirped. "Well, since it would mean something to the _boys_ \--"

"And me, too, of course," Bitty added. He had turned an even deeper shade of red than his Samwell pillowcase just visible on the screen behind him.

"Bittle. Did you honestly imagine I'd miss your game?"

"Oh, no, honey, I know you'd _want_ to be there, but--"

"Bits. I've already made sure I can get a little time off. I'm not missing that game." Honestly, it was almost too easy to chirp Bittle. His reactions were just priceless, particularly when it took him a few chirps to realize he was being teased. But somewhere along the line, Jack realized, he'd lost his tolerance for seeing Bitty in genuine distress--and they'd shared enough Skype calls (and other things) for him to be able to tell the difference. 

Actually, that wasn't true. He'd _never_ had much tolerance for seeing Bitty in genuine distress. That was why he'd forced Bittle into checking practice, after all. At least, he liked to think it wasn't all self-interest. 

"I don't want you to get in trouble or anything," Bittle insisted. "But...Ooh, the next night's Halloween! Does that mean--"

"Bits," Jack said mournfully, to stop him before he launched. "I can drive up for the game, but…. I'm sorry, I have to come back the same night. We've got an early-morning roadie on the 31st. The Halloween away game in Raleigh?"

"Oh," said Bitty, deflated. "Right. I forgot. Ha, silly me. Well, you'll be there for the game, at least."

Jack felt his stomach twist from the way Bittle crumpled in on himself. Apparently he also had no tolerance for knowing he was the _source_ of Bittle's distress. He cajoled softly, "Hey. You okay?" Bittle shrugged non-committally, with only one shoulder and a barely audible grunt. Jack lightened it up a little. "Hate to disappoint you, Bits, but you know, gotta slave away for the big bucks. I mean, how else can I earn multiple millions to keep my boyfriend in style?"

Bittle blushed despite himself and forced a laugh. "Oh, honey, no, it's _fine_. I mean, I'm glad. It'll be 'swawesome to see you." He caught both lips between his teeth. "I...really miss you."

"I really miss you, too, Bitty. Talk tomorrow, right?"

"Right." 

Jack shut off Skype and sent the computer to sleep. As he turned out his lamp, he could hear the sounds of the street below--louder than the average night in Samwell, but nothing like the pounding bass of the LAX house he'd had to drown out during their parties. A train whistle echoed from the tracks and the rhythmic thump of rail cars produced a more comforting white noise. He laid down against the pillow, feet extending into the cooler part of the sheets, and closed his eyes. As he settled into sleep, his mind drifted right back to Bittle. How and when and why he'd fallen in love was something of a mystery to him, one that he was still trying to pinpoint for himself. How much did he owe to his own heart, and how much to Bittle's?

_X_ * _X_ * _X_ 

From the first practice, there had been something about Bittle that made Jack oddly protective.

"He's so small," he'd told Shitty after their second training day at Faber. "I'm sure someone's gonna snap him like a twig."

"Coach Murray saw something, though," Shitty reminded him. "So he can't be all that bad. And if he doesn't make the cut, well...nothing to worry about, is there?"

Shitty had a way of making things okay, and his non-chalance about whether the slim, swift skater from Georgia would even make the team calmed Jack considerably. If Bittle couldn't survive training, he wouldn't get hurt in the regular season. More to the point, his performance wouldn't impact Jack's team in a season when, he knew, all eyes would be back on him. His career had been "on hold" for a few years (to use Papa's polite phrase), but as a Junior and in his second year as Captain, he could feel the pressure building again. If he wanted his Senior year to stay on track, it would be vital to have a crack team assembled around him. An NHL berth wasn't built on individual effort alone, he knew. It also factored in leadership, teamwork, and most importantly showing that you had your teammates' backs, and your teammates had yours. It didn't seem to him at first that Bittle could manage the third thing, if he was too concerned about his own scrawny behind.

Aside from the whole contact problem, though, Jack began to recognize another potentially damaging issue when it came to Bittle. He...liked Bittle. As a person, if not as a teammate. Off the ice, Bittle had a tenderness, a selflessness about him, that could not help but endear him. Maybe more a mascot than a winger, but...the kid's sensitivity made him observant, and his charm and effervesence, if a bit much at times, certainly improved the team's spirit. Jack found even by the end of training camp that the boys--that he--liked having Bittle around. He even went so far as to ask Coach Murray if there wasn't a role for Bittle that didn't put the kid at risk on the ice.

"Jack, I appreciate your concerns--Coach Hall, too--but the fact is, he's got great hands, and you've seen his speed."

"I know, and I grant he's got some skills. But--he's going to get checked. Sooner or later."

"And we've talked about that with him. He knows he's going to have to learn to take a hit." Coach Murray crossed his arms and leaned back a bit. "Are you saying you want him off the roster, Jack?"

"No…no, not yet, Coach. But he's got to get better. Soon."

"Uh-huh. Well, look. You're Captain. Have you talked to him about freezing? His mental block?"

"Of course, I have!" Jack replied, stung. 

"Well, keep trying to help him, if you want him to stick around. Kid's obviously afraid, maybe do something to help him get over it." Coach Murray shook his head and sighed. "I tell ya, it'd be a shame to see him lose his scholarship because we had to cut him."

"...Scholarship?" Jack stammered. He'd had no idea--strictly speaking, he _shouldn't_ have had any idea, and Coach Murray shouldn't have said anything about it. Bittle's financial status was no one's business. Coach Murray knew it, too, but he held Jack's gaze for a moment before ending the conversation and sending Jack on his way. Unquestionably, he'd meant to "slip up" to send Jack the message. He'd even reminded Jack that as Captain, it was his responsibility to help the underclassman.

"Have each other's backs," he muttered to himself as he walked back across the River Quad to the Haus. _Crisse, Jacques, c'est_ toi _qui ne vit pas à la devise_." Had he really talked to Bittle about his problem? Worked with him? Or just...ordered him to get over it? "Because that works so well, eh?" he told himself. 

By the time he reached his room, he'd made a decision: Bittle wasn't going to lose his scholarship, and Jack wasn't going to give up on a kid who tried so hard and played with so much heart.

That was how checking practice had started. Of course, Jack knew that improving Bittle's fortitude would necessarily also improve the team performance, and therefore his _own_ performance. He told himself that the improved team cohesion was the side effect, not the primary goal. But around Bittle, he made sure that the opposite seemed true: He behaved as if self-interest was his motivation, not charity. It was easy enough with the boys filling Bittle's head with all those rumours about "hockey robot Jack Zimmermann" and "Mr. 110%." 

He had his reasons. For one thing, he figured Bittle wouldn't appreciate condescension, and might get offended if he thought Jack was acting out of pity, or was coddling him like his Southern momma. Second, Bittle liked to please others. So Jack figured that he might try even harder if he thought Jack was cold, demanding, and uncompromising, and that successfully absorbing a hit would improve their relationship. And third, chirping Bittle, pushing him, was just a thousand times easier when he kept his distance, emotionally. Bittle did grow on one. The guys were already half-adopting him. Jack actually worried that the team's diet would go to hell after Bittle started supplying them with a steady stream of pie. Ransom and Holster might claim they had hollow legs, and sure, they all worked off at least as many calories as they consumed, but everyone noticed the increase in sugars, fats, and whatever other ingredients Bittle managed to pack into his baking. And he baked all the time. He'd more or less moved into the Haus kitchen.

"He's like our little brother, y'know?" Shitty pointed out one night in Jack's room.

"I don't have a brother," Jack replied. "And at least put down a towel if you're gonna sit on my bed like that."

"Brah, you wound me! Am I not thy bro?"

"Thou art, but that's different. Get the fuck off my bed, Shits."

"Make me, _Mon Frère_." Shitty never learned. Five minutes later, Jack climbed into bed and handed Shitty's laptop to his "bro" now on the floor. 

"Anyway, I don't want to think of Bittle as a little brother," Jack said thoughtfully. "I can't afford to. He's still a liability."

"A liabil--Jack, will you listen to yourself? Man, you really can be a robot."

"Sorry," Jack mumbled.

"Don't apologize, brah, flip that switch and act like a human again."

"Switch, right. Good point: it's late. I'm turning off my light now, Shitty. Get out."

Shitty gathered up his laptop and retreated to the door. He turned before leaving. "M'dude, you really need to examine why you're so down on our Itty Bitty. S'all I'm sayin'. You know I love you, bro, but it can't be all hockey, all the time."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Go away." But he laid in bed for a long time, thinking. Bittle's fear--the way he cringed and flinched when Jack was still inches away--sent a wave of pity over Jack. Truthfully, his first instinct was to wonder who had laid hands on this kid in such a way as to traumatize him so badly. While his sympathies softened his demeanour toward Bittle, they simultaneously created an undercurrent of doubt: Could Bittle overcome his own fear? If he didn't, would it be Jack's fault for not helping him? It was difficult not to resent the distraction and very real impediment that Bittle represented.

Meanwhile, Bittle was worming his way in under Jack's skin in other ways. The observant, sensitive kid who _noticed_ was identifying chinks in Jack's armour that he did _not_ need showing, thank you very much. He wasn't sure when Bittle had decided that working together gave him the right to follow Jack's every move, to mother him, or to extend his own brand of pity--pity that Jack neither wanted nor deserved. But there was no question that Bittle had taken it upon himself to repay Jack's attention with...with solicitousness. It made him intensely uncomfortable, and in his less charitable moments, Jack wondered what else Bittle might want from him. Others had tried to get close with ulterior motives before. Mostly it was simple to ignore it and they would drift away once it became clear that he was far too focused on hockey for dating--or anything else. His first-year Winter Screw date had wanted to be arm candy, which was a not altogether unexpected form of using him, and he'd simply never called her back. Jack couldn't quite tell what Bittle wanted, and that was unsettling.

"Maybe he doesn't want anything?" Shitty pointed out one morning. He was shaving around the 'stache while Jack was showering after a run. 

"What does that mean?" Jack quipped in return.

"I mean...he's just naturally thoughtful, y'know? He likes taking care of other people."

Jack grunted. Bittle's motives might be entirely altruistic, but it seemed unlikely. Or perhaps it was Jack's own reaction getting in the way--and being nurtured in itself was what made him uncomfortable in his own skin. Perhaps it was because Jack recognized those insecurities that masked themselves with concern about others. 

Despite cultivating an attitude designed to make Bittle seek his approval, he worried that Bittle was latching on to him. He worried that he was bound to disappoint. He worried that he seemed unable to stop changing his mind about the kid: one moment, he found him infectious; the next insufferable. It didn't help that his opinion correlated directly to Bittle's performance on the ice. That is, it was directly correlated until Bittle scored his first goal.

It had to be at parents' weekend. It had to be in front of Papa. It had to be a game-winner and it had to be a clutch goal, to boot. Johnson's throwaway comment felt like a knife in the chest: "Well, sure, narratively, Bitty's turning point comes at the intersection of maximum drama and maximum impact. It wouldn't be a climax otherwise, dude." Jack didn't even know or care what Johnson meant by "narratively" but he sure understood "maximum drama."

 _"Jacques, tse, c'est la victoire qu'import; ch'toujour fier de toi,_ " Papa said after. "You all did well, even if you didn't score the winner yourself. In fact...I think he might improve your game."

"How?" Jack asked.

"He's fast, he can get past the bigger forwards, you tic-tac-toe--" Papa made an explosive noise as he demonstrated the puck with his hand. _"Marquer un but_."

"Huh," said Jack, unconvinced and still smarting from being upstaged. 

"Fine, ignore the old man."

"I'm not--I--"

"Speak of the devil," Papa said brightly as they came around and caught sight of Bittle. "Is that his mother? Grow'em small down there in Georgia, eh? Let's go say hello." Before Jack could object, Papa barrelled forward and turned on his patented charm. Jack was thoroughly embarrassed in a matter of seconds.

It explained, though not excused, how short he was with Bittle later that night. It explained how pissed off he was when Coach Hall paired him up with Bittle in the spring and his father's prediction proved right. He felt bad about all that afterward. But Bittle hadn't crumpled, like Jack had half expected. Perhaps that was what Johnson meant by narrative climax, because that was probably the day that Jack's opinion of Bittle hit bottom, and after he cleared his own head, he began to accept his linemate on Bittle's own terms.

What that didn't explain was where along the way he went from accepting Bittle to liking Bittle to thinking about Bittle all the time.

_X_ * _X_ * _X_ 

Although he'd gone to sleep thinking about Bittle, he dreamed about Kent that night. It was probably because the first Aces game was coming up in a couple weeks, he thought, eager to dismiss the spectre of his old partner. But as he rolled out for morning skate, he wondered, not for the first time, if he would have developed feelings for Bittle at all if they hadn't been made linemates. If he was honest, Bittle becoming his winger both accelerated his feelings, and put hard brakes on them, and that was all because of Kent.

He and Kent had just fit so well together. Either of them could center or wing, so they could easily swap as the game demanded. Logically, he knew some of that was the way he'd felt when he was high, when the drugs kicked in and he felt invincible. But there was evidence that both the pills and his psychic meld with Kent worked together to create a perfect storm: Kenny's fade was utterly sick, and somehow their no-look passes connected without even trying. By contrast, Bittle wasn't nearly as good--he'd never reach NHL levels, of course--but he was fast, and he did have that preternatural way of always knowing where Jack was on the ice.

And like Bittle, Kent had never made comparisons between Jack and his father, even though Kent knew all about "Bad Bob," just as much as every kid in Canada who ever laced a skate. Kent defended him whenever anyone else tried to hold him up to his father's standard, but without making him feel he had to make up for shortcomings of his own. It didn't stop him from medicating, but it went a huge way toward being confident that Kent treated him like an equal, like an individual, and not just a continuation of his father's legacy. Their friendship was about their drive to succeed, their dissatisfaction with anything less than perfection, their devotion to the sport. The physical stuff had come later. Much later. 

That was another point of similarity for Jack with regard to Bittle. Looking back, he couldn't connect his feelings about Bittle to anything like attraction until after they were living in the Haus together, after they'd become much closer friends as a result of playing and taking that seminar together, and especially after Bittle had voted for him for Captain even after Jack's play got him concussed. That wasn't actually unusual for Jack. He knew he had a hard time recognizing when anyone was interested in him. He'd always attributed it to his laser focus on hockey. He just didn't have time to notice anyone, especially not anyone who forced him to break his routines. Routines were important, particularly in high-stress situations, which, basically, described Jack's whole life. Bittle shattered that barrier, too, since he was omnipresent in Jack's life for his whole Senior year, no variation from norm required. Ditto Kent, who had been there for every practice, every roadie, every billet posting…even the draft. The draft that wasn't.

But nearly everything else about him and Bittle was the opposite of him and Kent. Even as fumbling teens, not quite sure of themselves or each other, Jack and Kent always had an edge of competition between them. Sex was a complicated struggle, full of "I dare you" and "Bet you can't" and "What would you do if I" and "Make me." Bittle was competitive only as part of the _team_ , in defense of the collective welfare and success of their circle of friends. It had taken Jack a while to realize that Bittle's solicitous nature was, in fact, mostly altruistic. Not completely--it certainly did give Bittle an excuse to worry about everyone other than himself. And there was more than a little quid-pro-quo among teammates, for dibs or otherwise, which Bittle was not too proud to leverage for his own benefit. But it was, for lack of a better word, normal. Gradually, Jack came to see that nothing ominous lurked behind Bittle's generosity except a weird maternal streak and the tendency to chatter too much.

Maybe it was the Food Seminar itself? Getting to see Bittle at his most competent? More than that, Jack mused, because it was not one of his best classes. No "Jack the Robot" when it came to struggling with the material. He'd even leaned on the sophomore for help. And Bittle had barely chirped him about his vulnerability. But Jack still wondered if perhaps, subconsciously, he'd manipulated things to get into that class and to get Bittle into it precisely so that he could spend more time with him. Precisely so that he could test how Bittle would treat him if their rôles were reversed: Bittle as mentor and Jack as student. And wouldn't that imply that he'd already begun to fall in love?

If he thought that it had started after Bittle skated on his line, then he was sure it was fully in play by the time Kent had shown up at the epikegster. Once again, Bittle had a knack for being in just the wrong place at the right time. Jack knew what Bittle must have thought when he overheard Kent cursing him out. He wasn't proud that Bittle had caught him in that moment, seen how Kent could still tie him up in knots. He'd been pissed off at Kent, at himself, and at Bittle for catching them--and, he admitted, more than a little afraid that Bittle would find the merit in Kent's insults. That he would stop idolizing Jack and start seeing all the ways that Kent was right about him. So he was definitely already feeling something then, something beyond friendship or fraternity. He wasn't sure it really qualified as love, though. The whole exercise was frustrating and--most likely--pointless. Clearly, he'd straddled the line between "like" and "love" for most of that year.

So maybe he would never be able to pinpoint the moment of inception. Even after he'd put the pieces together for himself, long after his crush had snuck up on him, he never would have done anything without his father's push at Graduation. As much as he'd have liked to claim that he consciously decided not to wheel a member of his team, he knew better. He really _hadn't_ recognized his own feelings early enough to make a difference as far as that went. Even after they'd lost the Championship Game down in Boston, when he could truly say he'd started to get a nagging feeling about something being off, he'd just told himself he had a hopeless (foolish) crush. He'd tried to quash it but everything Bittle did just made it worse--and the negotiations with Providence , his thesis, all the end-of-term and end-of-college stuff muddled the picture terribly. He kept pushing the feelings away, focusing instead on problems he could resolve, instead of one that (he thought) had no easy solution. In essence, he'd been so convinced it was too late that he'd decided to let it go. 

He could not believe how severely he'd deluded himself about his own feelings, how completely he'd misjudged the depth of Bittle's affection, nor how close he'd come to ruining his life a second time. And that, he thought, was why it was so important to be able to identify the tipping point. So he'd recognize other potential momentous decisions when they came flying at him.

Between morning skate and conditioning, he whipped out his phone and sent off a quick text. Then a phone call to Rachel, the team's PR manager. "Hey, I was wondering...about those pumpkins. We're going to get photos of them lit up in the dark, right? I think my...parents would really love to see it."

Rachel chuckled. "Jack Zimmermann, you are too funny. Yes, of course, I can get you photos."

"Great. But, um...If I...wanted to go? In person, I mean? Would that...line up with the schedule anywhere?"

"Oh, Jack, it's so great that you're really trying to participate in the community! People will love that. If you want to go, I'll see if I can send a camera--"

"No, not as a publicity thing. Sorry. I just want to maybe go walk along the path, you know, as a normal attendee. Since it's the first time I'll be seeing it, I mean. I think by next year too many people might recognize me, eh?"

"People will probably recognize you this year, Jack. It's okay if you just want to attend--I mean, it's dark, they probably won't even notice you're in the crowd except maybe right near the Falconers section. But let me send someone with you, at least. Discreetly. Just in case?"

"Oh. Well...maybe, uh, maybe not, then. Sorry. But, um...what are the dates for that Waterfire thing again? There are still a few more before winter, right?"

"Well, for Waterfire, you should wait til we're off-season, next summer. I can make sure you're on a gondola--"

"No, no, I don't--I just want to maybe go walk along the canal. Or..did our packet say there are hotels where you can see the basin and everything going on from the balconies?"

"Yeah, there are, but…. Jack?" she asked, drawing it out as if suspicious. "Do you want to bring a date down, is that where this is going?"

He blushed, looking around nervously. Mashkov hadn't wandered by? Or any of the others? He was alone; everyone else was probably in the cafeteria. "'M'I that obvious?"

"Not my first rodeo." She laughed again. "Don't worry, it's none of my business. My office will make the arrangements. I'll let you know the date so you can make sure your girl is available."

"Uh...yeah. Thanks." He got off the call before anyone could show up and tease him. He hoped there were at least a couple nights that neither he nor Bittle had a conflict. But even if not, he determined to share everything he possibly could right from the outset. He knew they couldn't necessarily behave like a "normal" couple (whatever that was), but he didn't want Bittle to feel even slightly left out, or taken for granted.

_X_ * _X_ * _X_ 

Rachel's office emailed him with a preferred and a backup date for the zoo, plus some other information, and he knew just from looking that neither were going to line up. "Thanks, but...it's not gonna work. Just send me those pictures?" Five minutes later, he was forwarding them to Bittle, with the caption: [Next year we'll go, okay?] He got approximately 20 exclamation points and a few assorted emojis in response.

Boarding the plane for D.C., he got another text: 

[Bittle: What r u gonna b 4 Halloween?]

His reply took all of a second: [A 'JACK'-o-lantern, of course!]

"Group-texting with your old team, there, Zimm?" Third asked, clapping his shoulder as he squeezed past to get to a seat. Jack was so startled he almost fumbled his phone; only the seat back kept it from falling to the floor.

"Oh! Uh...no, just, um, talking about Halloween costumes. I guess."

"Oh, hey, that reminds me: Mitch always has a party at his house, you should come. We bring the kids and let'em loose in his game room…."

"Oh, he told me, but I can't this year. My college team's opening at home that night." While it did sound like loads of fun, Jack knew it could hardly compare to a kegster at the Haus. Or being alone in a dimly lit room with Bittle. Both of which he planned to sample on the night of Mitch's party. The Home Opener at Samwell had never seemed so far away.

He started to send Bittle a text to tell the guys he missed them, then thought better of it. It would only lead to more questions and put Bittle in a worse position. He hated the feeling that he was holding Bitty back in any way, but he hated more the idea that he was actively compromising Bitty's well-being by adding to the number of lies and obfuscations Bittle told to protect him.

As the plane taxied to the runway and he shut down his phone, he reminded himself that all this was only temporary. Once Bittle graduated, they could tell a select group and he could move in and….

And he'd still have to hide their relationship. Jack stared out the window as the plane climbed into the clouds. He had a plan, sure, but had he told Bittle what it was? One of the great things about Bittle being in hockey was that he already understood the impediments, so no, they hadn't really talked about timelines or futures…. Maybe it was time to find a way to discuss it. Maybe it wasn't so important to know just when his crush had started, so long as he knew not to ever let anything get in the way of the good thing he had.

"What's wrong, rookie?" Marty asked, glancing over. "You gonna hurl?"

"No. Tired, I guess."

"Zimmboni's tired?" Mashkov chirped. "Has not even played third Regulation game, and he's tired. Maybe we arrange extra morning skate, ha. Suicides for everyone, like we train in Russia!"

Thirdy added his two cents: "Tater, if we run suicides, I'll tell you who the first one to puke will be, and his name starts with an A!" Soon the guys were all insulting each other and Jack felt just like he did on roadies with the SMH, safely out of the spotlight, just one among many.

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

Jack pulled up to the Samwell station to pick up Shitty before the game. They grabbed a bite while Shitty alternately peppered him with questions about the Falconers and offloaded his own stresses as he neared the middle of his first semester of law school. Jack answered when it was his turn and listened attentively when it wasn't. Too many times, he caught himself before saying something to Shitty like, "Yeah, Bits saw that wrestling one, too; he said he thought Marty had Tater until the last three seconds," or "Oh, Bittle said that the best juicer right now's the Ninja Pro Duo." Strictly speaking, he could have said it, but it would have raised Shitty's suspicions. And Shitty was already suspicious enough.

"C'mon, truth, brah: You've already met someone down there? Maybe someone in team support or on the press corps?"

"No, I haven't, Shits."

Shitty's eyes narrowed. "Whatever you say, man," he declared. They settled the bill and walked over to Faber, reasoning that without a campus pass, they'd wind up parking about as far away as the car was already. Besides, Shitty was planning on staying over ("getting ass-fucking legless and passing out on the pong table," in fact, was his prediction), so they'd need to fetch his duffle from Jack's car afterward, before going over to the Haus.

Jack watched them all with a practiced eye. Ransom's no-look was improving; Holster had pushed himself hard this game and had an extra spring in his takeoff; Ollie and Wicks still gave up too many face-offs. But mostly, he watched Bittle. He felt an irrational desire to turn to everyone near them in the stands and shout, "That's mine, right there!" but by some miracle he held himself back. Instead, he poured everything he had into his congratulatory shout in the 2nd period, when Bittle actually initiated a tiny little check. 

Afterward, in the locker room, he waited out most of the boys, which meant a lot of autographs and posing for selfies. He gave Ransom the heads-up about going to the kegster--he'd already given his car keys to Shitty, who'd left with Lardo to walk over for his stuff--and approached Bittle cautiously. He wanted to wrap him in a bear hug and lift him in an honest-to-god twirl, but there were still too many others changing. He contented himself with a completely inadequate fist-bump, feeling a coward the entire time. Perhaps he and Bittle kept in contact a little longer than necessary. That much risk, he decided he could afford. Briefly he considered telling Bittle he'd wait and walk over with him. Deciding it would be too tempting to cross the river alongside Bittle, possibly frog-march him into the shadows of some of the trees on the Lake Quad, dump him in a pile of leaves and ravish him on the ground…. Jack opted to head over alone and let Bittle catch up when he was changed. 

And the party was great, really, though it meant more autographs and selfies until he could safely orchestrate going upstairs. Being alone in a dimly lit room with Bittle was, in fact, every bit as enjoyable as he'd hoped. 

It was afterward that it all went to shit. Literally. Shitty lived up to his own promise, too, and got hammered. He slammed full-speed into practicing his court-room mode, got in Jack's face and challenged him on the "girlfriend" issue. He might as well have shouted, _"J'accuse!"_ for all the evidence he tried to stack up. And the truth was, every damning statistic Shitty leveled at him was terrifyingly accurate; Shitty just drew the wrong conclusions about them. It freaked Jack out to realize how indiscreet he might have been, that Shitty could get so close to the truth in only a few months. Lardo defused Shitty in ways only Lardo could manage, but not before Jack heard himself deny not only the existence of a girlfriend, but dating anyone at all.

It was a terrible note to leave on.

He replayed it over and over as he drove out of town. Every sign on Route 1 seemed imprinted, not with the names of junctions or speed limits, but with the words, "You fucked up, bro." By the time he came to the interchange onto 95, he knew he couldn't go to bed without saying something, but he feared a protracted conversation that night. The roadie was an early one, but he could Skype Bittle from the hotel--if Bittle would let him explain. He pulled over and texted Bittle from the on-ramp, before even getting on the highway, grateful that at that hour, there was no one else on the road.

He owed him a real apology, not just a rushed text. He could list the reasons he'd panicked in the face of Shitty's onslaught, and mostly, he trusted that Bittle would understand. He wasn't sure Bittle would figure out, though, that Jack didn't think of their relationship as 'dating' and he hated to let Bittle think he'd been ashamed or that he took Bittle for granted, or that he thought of Bittle as a meaningless hookup. And he'd have to clear it up long-distance. It was ridiculously complicated.

He got a text back from Bittle before he got home.  
[Bittle: Tomorrow's Halloween. Hallowkegster.

[Right,] he texted as soon as he parked in his garage. [Are you still up? I just got home; I can get on now, for a minute or two.]

[Bittle: I'm up. Barely. Honey, go to bed. It's all right.]

[You sure?]

[Bittle: Yes. I understand. Really. Have a safe trip.]

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

The unfinished conversation weighed on him all the way to the airport and all the way to Raleigh. The guys were all talking about the party he'd missed, reminding him that he was still a step behind in bonding with his new team. Most of them, Jack included, slept a little more on the plane. There was no privacy after landing, since they all piled on the bus to the arena and then it was a mad crush to get their gear and lace up and see some ice time before puck drop. In the break between their afternoon skate and hitting the ice for the contest, Jack ordered a PB&J from hotel room service. Already it seemed tragic whenever he had to make his own, but Bittle had left a stack of post-its with instructions to pick one without looking at it and fix it to his sandwich whenever Bittle couldn't be there in person. He couldn't do that, exactly, but he had brought a note with him, stuck to the inside cover of a book he'd been carrying around and meaning to read. He got today's note out after the plate arrived, and smoothed it out on the table in front of himself as he ate. The note said, "I believe in you!" with a little heart for the "o" and it twisted the knife in Jack's gut. He did not deserve anyone like Bittle.

His phone buzzed. His stomach sank.

[Bittle: Oh, darn.  
[Bittle: I wanted you to be the first to see my costume!  
[Bittle: But Tango just barged in, haha.  
[Bittle: Are you ready? :)]

Jack let out the breath he'd been holding. Bittle wasn't mad at him. 

[Haha.  
[Yeah. :)]

He waited while the photo downloaded. Bittle was wearing a short, grey, sleeveless union suit with a bunny-ear hood. The hemline showed off Bitty's quads. The white belly was slashed in an open V halfway down his chest, but that wasn't nearly as eye-catching as the cotton bunny-tail on his butt. His very, very tightly encased butt. His barely covered butt. Which he had aimed at the camera, doing his best coquette pose into the mirror as he held out his cell phone. 

Jack stared. He dropped the crust of his sandwich.

[Bittle: It's so silly, isn't it?]  
[Bittle: I just thought it'd be cute.  
[Bittle: But it might be a bit much?]

Jack stared. 

[Bittle: Well?]

Jack wished he hadn't already showered, because he felt the need for another one. A cold one.

[Bittle: Jack?]

He scooped up the crust and stuffed it in his mouth, wiped his hands.

[I have a game tonight, Bitty.  
[How am i supposed to concentrate with that image in my head?]

[Bittle: Oh! Oh, no…  
[Bittle: I'm so sorry, honey, I didn't even think--

Before Jack could swype out "It's fine," a third text came through.

[Bittle: You're chirping me, aren't you.]

Jack laughed. He deleted the text he was composing and sent a grinning smiley instead: [ **:^D** ]

[Bittle: Oh, hahahah. Very funny, Mr. Zimmermann.]

[I'm glad you showed me early. You look …  
[Good enough to eat.]  
[My own little Playboy puck bunny.]

[Bittle: You're too much! How was your afternoon skate?]

[Good. Everyone here sounds like you, btw.]

[Bittle: Jack Zimmermann, you take that back. I'll have you know you are in North Carolina, NOT the great state of Georgia!]

[Ha.]

He took a swig of juice. He could ask if Bittle had time to talk now, but he hesitated. Instead, he wrote: [Back at the hotel now, eating.]

[Bittle: :) What does your note say?]

["I believe in you"]

[Bittle: I do! You're gonna be 'swawesome tonight.  
[Bittle: Maybe I should let you go. We're decorating, if you can believe that.]

[I can. Ransom and Holster LOVE Halloween as much as you do. Gonna stay in that outfit?]

[Bittle: Lord, no! Not if I'm gonna have to climb the furniture or sit on Holster's shoulders to hang banners.]

[It looks really good, Bits.]

[Bittle: Oh, haha, well, um, good? I mean, I'm glad you like it.]

[Ohhhh, I like it.] The text was a masterful understatement, if he said so himself. The way the cut curved up toward the crease of Bitty's ass, how the curved bases of the globes were just barely hanging out…. Jack forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly.

And suddenly...he knew. He figured out the moment when his affection for Bittle tipped over into real attraction, from there to grow gradually into love. It had been near the end of Bittle's frog year, around the time of Spring C. Bittle was hanging out at the Haus in a pair of shorts so short that Jack had tripped on the steps when he saw. Ordinarily, Jack was not the type to notice that sort of thing, but on Bittle, it had been unforgettable. He'd been out on the porch, sipping a beer. He had tipped his face up toward the sun to finish the bottle, and the little folded cuffs of his shorts had cupped his ass in just the same way as the costume did now, and he'd looked at Jack with untinged happiness. And that was it. This new photo made him wistful for all the time he and Bittle could have had together in school, if he'd only connected the dots sooner. 

It also made him want to do rather unspeakable things to Bittle at the earliest opportunity. Unfortunately, that would have to wait 'til after the team got back. An idea occurred to him about the date of Bittle's next visit, but he didn't have time to research it just then and he decided not to say anything until he made sure. Instead, he merely wrote:

[Have fun tonight, eh? And i'll skype you after the game?]

[Bittle: Please! Can't wait to see your face again. Keep thinking about how great it was to have you here yesterday.]

Jack fought a wave of guilt. There was no ducking it now.

[About that…. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like I was brushing you off.]

[Bittle: I know. I mean, I was a little shocked, ngl, but I thought about it and...I really do understand.  
[Bittle: Anyway, you shouldn't worry about that now. You have a game! And I have a kegster. TTYL?]

It said something about his exposure to Bittle (and the guys) that he actually knew what "ngl" and "TTYL" meant without having to ask. He sent back a quick: [You bet.] 

Before he closed the messenger app, he saved the photo onto the memory card on his phone. Then he uploaded it to his G-drive for good measure. He spent some quality time in the bathroom with the photo on his screen before getting dressed. Then it was time to put on his tie, gather up his gear and room key, and head out.

_X_ * _X_ * _X_

It helped immeasurably to know that Bittle said he wasn't angry, but he wasn't entirely sure it was for the right reasons. He also wasn't entirely kidding about his concentration. The image of Bitty in his little bunny costume kept floating to the surface. Jack tripped twice over imaginary bumps in the carpet on the way to the hotel elevator. By the time he got on the bus back to the arena, he could feel his nerves starting to bother him again. What he'd left unsaid weighed on his shoulders like a heavily-lined coat. Well, he'd worked with his therapist for years on just this sort of problem. 

Whenever worries started to consume him, especially near game time, he focused on his routine, and breathing, and just being present. Since they didn't have a pre-game skate, the guys all got up a game of hackey-sack in the hallway. Jack joined in for the chance to think about nothing and to get his heart rate rising. As he did, he focused on the sack, on tracking it through the air, on guessing how it would connect with his teammates' leg or foot or elbow. The method worked. He let all the doubt fall away by the time they marched out to the ice. For the next three hours, there was nothing but the stick, the puck, the net, the team, his coach, his opponents. Sixty minutes on the clock ticked down, then the five of OT, and they came down to the shootout. 

"Jack!" Coach tapped his shoulder during the second pass. "You're on deck."

Jack nodded. The skater in red shot straight at Snowy, but Snowy gloved it down to the crowd's chagrin.

"Okay, Zimmermann. Close this thing out," said Coach.

He buried it five-hole. 

It was all over. The 'Canes' goalie skated to his bench while the rest of their team filed out, and the Falconers all bumped his fist as he finished his celly before heading to the dressing room. While they took care of post-game, as he woodenly replied to the interview questions, and they packed up their gear, Jack just wanted to get back to the hotel and onto Skype. He fumbled for his phone, which always stayed in his duffel on "silent" during games. He'd once made the mistake of checking it during the first-period intermission, got completely distracted by the SMH group chat, and played his worst second period in living memory. He loved the boys, but their chatter had to wait until after he finished work for the night.

There were approximately 150 texts--most of them from the SMH group chat. But he also discovered that he'd been so preoccupied about Bittle, he'd forgotten to plug it in since before his trip to Samwell. He was on 5%--critical.

"Hey, anybody have a rapid charger?" he asked. 

"Sure do," Thirdy said happily. He reached into his duffel and pulled out a large brick. "Got your own cord?"

"Yeah, thanks." Thirdy handed him the instrument of his salvation with only a minor chirp ("You gotta get one of these, man, you can charge like, three devices in about an hour. It's a must for the roadies"). He plugged in and opened up the chat group. Several large files began downloading as soon as he clicked. They must have sent pictures of the party. He scrolled up to skim the rest while the pics loaded. The group chat included a rather disjointed commentary on the game against the 'Canes, since apparently they'd had it on at the Haus even though there was also a kegster. Johnson's comment toward the beginning was uncomfortably ominous while simultaneously vague: [Don't worry, Jack. It's all good.] 

Shitty's comment: [JACK LAURENT ZIMMERMANN YOU FUCKING BEAUT!!!] presumably referred to his shoot-out game-winner, though he supposed it might have been about the assist he got on the first-period game-tying goal. Rather than get lost in the game comments, he scrolled back down to see if the pictures had finished loading. The most recent text was a pic Bittle had sent right around the time that Jack was plugging in his phone. Bittle must have timed it precisely, he thought, suppressing a smile. There was Ransom dressed as Blue Beetle, and Holster, of course, as Booster Gold. And there was Bitty, sitting in Holster's arms, smiling at the camera. 

[B. Knight: dear god. swawesome. #WishIWereThere.]

Jack smiled, once again grateful that Bitty had sent him a preview.

[Haha. Nice.]

Almost immediately, a text arrived from Johnson. If Jack hadn't known better, he might have sworn Johnson was simply waiting for Jack's response before adding his own inimitable observation:

[Johnson: There's an infinite number of things going on here.]

[Berger: Chyeah, like R&H, could you two be any more married?]

He let the chat run and the phone charge while he showered, then caught up with half an eye as he dressed and followed the guys onto the bus. He was already planning what to say to Bitty when they Skyped, but hoping not to put too big a damper on his boyfriend's evening. Bittle looked like he was having fun. He hoped Bittle wasn't too drunk for a serious talk, but if he was, Jack could wait. The bus pulled into the hotel garage and they grabbed their bags. 

He rode the elevator with Tater, Snowy, and Fitz, pushed into the hallway back to his room. "Hey, Zimmboni, we go to dinner, da?"

"Room service for me, thanks," he said. "Long day." And, he reflected, it really had been a very long couple of days, what with the trip to Samwell, getting home so late, getting up so early, and playing 65 minutes plus shoot-out. The saving grace was their two-day break before facing San Jose. He'd probably sleep all the way cross-country tomorrow. For now, he needed to eat, but he wasn't sure he'd still be awake when the food arrived.

Still, he ordered and then texted Bittle. [Back in my room! Ready for me?]

[Bittle: I'm already upstairs! We took that photo a couple hours ago, before the midnight concert; I was saving it.]

He pulled up his computer, connected the wifi and plugged in his phone while he was waiting. In moments, he fired up Skype and dialed Bittle. 

"Hi, honey!" Bittle said brightly. He was still wearing the bunny suit, but he (or Lardo) had added whiskers and some other makeup to his nose. 

"Well, if it isn't Señor Bun," Jack chirped. 

"Hahaha. It really was a little shorter than I expected, but--you sure you like it?"

"Told you; I love it."

Bittle's pleased grin was all the encouragement Jack needed, but his boyfriend continued: "Jack, you were so good tonight! We had the game on in the kitchen. I couldn't look away."

"Bits, before we get into that. About last night--"

Bittle shook his head and held up one hand to stop him. "Honey, I told you, it's okay."

"No. I just...I want to explain something."

"You don't have to--"

"Yes, I do. I know you know why I have to be careful, but...I want you to know I don't like it. I mean, I hate that I have to hide things. This. Us. And I know this going to sound like a cop-out, but, when Shitty came at me like that...yeah, I choked, but I wasn't lying. Not exactly. The thing is, I don't think of us as just dating. I mean, it's okay if you want to call it that, I won't mind. But to me…. Dating's...casual. This is not _dating_. It's more than that, eh?"

Bitty blushed. He picked up his stuffed bunny, and played with one ear absently. "Oh, you--"

"I mean it. I asked you to be my boyfriend; that's not just a label to me. It's a commitment. And I know, we haven't really talked about--about our future. But I think maybe we should. So, here goes: Bits…I want to be with you. I want you to move in with me once you're done with school. If you want to, I mean. And maybe by then we can tell the right people in the league and we won't have to...won't have to lie about it. Or at least not as much. And in the meantime, I...I want you to be able to talk to someone about us. Lardo, maybe. Or Ransom and Holster. They should know what's going on in your life."

Bittle took a breath and honest-to-jesus clutched at the collar of his costume. His jaw worked for a few seconds before he made any sound. Then suddenly he adopted the forced happiness that Jack recognized as his trademark evasion. 

"Well! Jack Zimmermann, you charmer. I told you I'm fine. But _I_ want _you_ to focus on your season." He crossed his legs, and sat his stuffed animal in the hollow of his ankles as he fired up his usual chatterbox. "Normally you know I wouldn't bring this up, 'cause I know all those sportscasters can do a number on you, and it's better not to listen, but, well--you know...that ESPN commentator? When you came off the bench for the shootout, he was talking about the 'tremendous pressure' you must have been under, and how your coach was taking a huge risk, that you'd never be out there as a rookie if you weren't 'Bad Bob's son.' I declare, I wanted to reach through the set and slap him silly. So'd half the team."

"Everyone watching, eh?" Jack muttered.

"Honey, we called an intermission on the kegster to watch that OT. Almost killed the party buzz. Dex is talking about a new by-law for it. But my point is, you _need_ to get through this, at least this first couple of years, and I'm not about to let either of us do anything to jeopardize that. Don't worry about me. You go on and do what you need to do. It's okay."

"Okay," Jack said, letting out a breath. "As long as you're all right with it. But...just remember. If I have to answer that kind of question again? We're not _dating_. We're _together_."

Bittle drew in a breath and let it out in a little "whoof" sound. He rocked back a bit against his pillow, in a way that Jack could tell meant he'd gotten through. "Jack Laurent Zimmerman, you do not do things by halves."

"Heh. _Pas vraiment_." There was a knock on his door. "Room service is here, hang on." He adjusted the screen so it wasn't visible, then answered the door and gave the guy his tip. By the time he came back, Bittle had changed into pajamas, but he still had the makeup on his face. "It's super-late for you, isn't it? Must be after two. Go to bed, Bits. I'll call you tomorrow?"

"I'm--" he yawned with a gaping mouth again-- "fine."

"You need to wash your face, eh? Can't have any of that makeup rubbing off on Señor Bun."

"Guess not." His voice came out small.

"Bitty? Bits?"

"Yes, honey?"

"I'll call you from San Jose tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. Night-night."

Jack smiled. "Night, Bits."

He shut down Skype and surfed for a few minutes while he ate. There was something in the materials Rachel had sent, that he wanted to Google. " _Boutte!_ " he exclaimed when he found what he was looking for. He pulled up the SMH calendar on the school's site. Clear there, too. _Bein parfait_ , he thought. Tired as he was, the thought of squeezing in another visit filled him with excitement. Especially when that visit would involve Bitty in firelight….

As he was brushing his teeth, his phone buzzed again. He came out of the bathroom to read the text:  
[Bittle: You really mean you want me to move in, eventually?]

[Absolutely. You think it's an accident that pvd is so close to bos--or that it has a great lgbt community? Or that i made sure the apartment had such a great kitchen?]

[Bittle: I still want to see you as a pumpkin.  
[Bittle: In person, I mean.  
[Bittle: Not just a picture.]

[Promise, we'll get there next year. But look, what are you doing November 11-12? There's this 'swawesome thing in PVD called waterfire and they've got a lighting that night]

[Bittle: Sounds great. tell me...tomorrow. zzzzzz xoxoxo]

Jack did something he'd never done: he hunted on his phone for the emojis. He sent Bittle a pumpkin jack-o-lantern face and a bunny, with a heart in between them. 

[ ](http://s1383.photobucket.com/user/gwenlygrace/media/Zimbits%20Screenshot_zpseq2iwju7.jpg.html)

They were gonna be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Based on the comics and the tweets, Bittle and the boys went to Jack's pre-season game on 9/21; Bitty also sneaks down for a PVD weekend the following week (9/27); Jack and Shitty come up for the Home Opener on 10/30, but Jack has to leave that same night for an "early roadie" per his text to Bitty after the kegster. So the Haus has a kegster after the game, and another Hallowkegster the next night. It's a bit of a stretch to say that Jack traveled and played on the same day, but it does happen, and it's plausible if that first game on the road is somewhere nearby, hence: Carolina. The tweets specify a game against the Sharks on November 3, so on this timeline, they take an extra travel day for the Falconers to get him out to the West Coast. He has another game on the 4th, also somewhere in Pacific time, and back to PVD on the 8th. November 11-12 is when Bitty goes to PVD to visit. 
> 
> Both the Halloween Jack-o-lantern Spectacular and Waterfire are real Providence things (and they're great!), and Waterfire always has a basin lighting for Veteran's Day (November 11), which lines up perfectly with Bitty's weekend special.
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr @gwenlygrace


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